


all i am i'm yours so listen up

by tremontaine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Multi, OT3, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tremontaine/pseuds/tremontaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things just really <i>get</i> to Bucky, OK, and seeing Steve  - or Nat - be happy is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all i am i'm yours so listen up

**Author's Note:**

> wow Bucky's POV is fun.

The light in the streets was grey and pale by the time they made it back to Brooklyn, gold streaks growing in the sky above the roofs to the east. The high they were both riding was more exhaustion than alcohol, undercut with the pleasure of good company and the silly delight of having made new friends: a group of Sam’s friends had met for a belated birthday shindig, and Bucky had liked them all.

Even Steve had relaxed enough to – but that wasn’t fair, was it. It was a long time since Steve had been uncomfortable around strangers, prone to putting his foot in his mouth. This evening he’d laughed and joked and teased and fit in almost as easily as he had with the Commandos, and Bucky had watched him half the night over the top of a succession of beers and been torn between thinking _god I’m so proud of you_ and _god I want to fuck you_.

That wasn’t unusual. He thought about sex a lot when he looked at Steve, and he was sure it was mutual, like they were making up for seventy years of lost time. Nat teased them sometimes, but Nat wasn’t any less horny herself. Bucky could probably count the number of times she’d turned one or both of them down for sex on the fingers of one hand. She wasn’t here this week; she and Barton were chasing something down that Fury had sent them, and Bucky missed her like he missed his flesh left hand: not every second, but all-consuming when he thought of it.

He wouldn’t think about her now – he was enjoying the buzz too much, the tired satisfaction of a good night’s out. The corner store blinds opened with a loud clatter; a dog barked, a car started, and Steve, easy in step with him, was smoking absent-mindedly and sighing every now and then with contentment. It made people heinously aggressive in this day and age, but the smell of cigarette smoke still said home to Bucky. The first time he’d lit up after DC a cartload of memories had crashed in on him: his Da loading crates with a smoke dangling out of the corner of his mouth, the pub in England where he’d waved his whiskey and said, _gentlemen, friend o’mine’s got a proposition for you if you’ll just wait here for a coupla minutes_ , the dance hall where he’d taught Becca to waltz, the fire escape he and Emily had sat on in the summer when she’d needed his help with her homework, the disgusted look on Sarah Jane’s face the first time he’d let her have a drag of his cigarette: _but it tastes disgusting, Buck!_

Steve still had that trick of rolling the cigarette between his fingers when he wasn’t dragging on it. It made Bucky smile, and it made him think of other things those deft fingers knew to do. He bit his lip thoughtfully, surveying the rumpled jacket, the messy hair, the tired blink of the blue eyes, the long relaxed drop of the shoulders.

“Picture’ll last longer,” Steve said as they turned the corner into their street. He dropped the cigarette down a storm drain, smiling. His voice had been blurring steadily all night into the accents of their childhood, and Bucky thought he knew why that always got Natasha going.

“Centuries’ experience suggests the opposite,” said Bucky, and stepped in close.

Steve gripped the lapel of his coat and kissed him: chapped lips, dry smoke-and-beer mouth, chaste and warm. Kissing each other on the street was still a new and awkward experience: are-you-sure-we-won’t-be-arrested. Bucky – being a contrary son of a bitch – slid his hand into Steve’s hair and took it deeper, made it wet, a promise of more. Steve shivered, and his smile just grew.

“Feel you lookin’ at me all night.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. Liked it.” Suddenly he chuckled. “Made me wonder if you were gonna punch that guy in the pool hall.”

Bucky laughed too, rubbing his fingers across Steve’s scalp. “Nat might’ve.”

“Nat would’ve shanked him outside the gents and no one would have known till closing time when they tried to wake him up and make him leave.”

“I think what makes it so fucking hot is that she doesn’t notice she does it.”

“Get possessive?” said Steve. “You’re probably right.” He shivered a bit, but that might have been the wind, to be totally fair. Bucky tugged at him, and they stumbled across the road and set out at a brisk walk to their front door, somewhat impeded by the way Steve was hanging all over him. “Nat watching me tonight would’ve been like having her hands on me, get me all het up, go over to her and do whatever she tells me right there in the bar, get on my knees for her with everyone watching.”

His breath was ghosting hot across the side of Bucky’s neck, his body pressed tight against him, voice a husky whisper, and as soon as the front door locked behind them Bucky was gonna make him regret it. He could see it, vivid and bright in his mind’s eye, Natasha’s hair gleaming in the dim light of the bar, the pleased, triumphant smile she’d wear, delighted that Steve would do this for her, that Steve and Bucky would do anything for her; the lazily widening angle of her thighs, and Steve’s big hands white against her black jeans, the press of his thumbs against her cunt, stroking her through the fabric while half New York looked on and ate themselves up with envy. “What, I don’t?”

“You made me wanna keep doing what I was doin’ – whatever I was doin’ that made you look at me like that,” said Steve. “Like nothin’ else in the universe mattered to you.”

“God.” Bucky snorted. “Everybody knows, don’t they.”

“Yep.” Steve was smug. “Hope you didn’t bring up our girlfriend without explainin’.”

He probably had, though. Bucky found it close to impossible not to talk about Steve and Nat to other people, not that he was ashamed of this tendency; even laying aside their histories, they had helped him rebuild his mind, given him safety, offered him friendship and understanding and love; they filled up every corner of his life, and he adored them. Logically, therefore, he tended to talk about them a lot.

His nieces and nephews were allowed to tease him about it, but nobody else was.

Up the front steps – Steve was plastered to his side, fingers skimming over his crotch, pushing slyly between waistband and hem of shirt, the light touch making Bucky shiver. His fingers fumbled embarrassingly with the keys. But then again, it was Steve, Steve who knew him inside out; what point being embarrassed. Bucky shoved him through the front door, stepped after him, kicked it closed and hauled Steve in for a kiss, laughing.

“I refuse to believe you’re even half as drunk as you’re acting.”

Steve laughed too, long and low, and Bucky felt it run through his body as they pressed close. “I don’t get drunk, so, no, probably not.” He kissed the corner of Bucky’s mouth, the line of his jaw. “Feel kind of like it, though.”

“That’s sweet.” Bucky was shivering, breathing a little quick. Sue him if he’d been turned on half the night, watching Steve’s smile, the quick hands on beer bottles and pool cues. Steve’s thigh was slotting neatly between his, and the leather of his jacket scratched against the frosted glass inset in the front door. That wouldn’t do. Steve was welcome to have his way with Bucky anywhere in this house, but not right up against the front door. He caught Steve’s head in his hands and kissed him thoroughly, smiling, took him apart with ease of practice, enthusiasm, careful attention to detail. Steve melted apart under his hands and mouth, let himself be pushed back into the house, stepped and turned with Bucky just as smooth as if they’d been – dancing.

Then he slid his hands down Bucky’s back to grip his ass and neatly turned the tables; the noise in Bucky’s mouth had begun as a laugh and become a needy little groan halfway when Steve’s fingers dug temptingly into the meat of his ass, and yeah, yeah, Bucky was hard. So was Steve. The jeans had to go: he needed skin under his palms, the heat and softness, the sweet way Steve’s hips stuttered against his body when Bucky wrapped his fingers around Steve’s cock. He bit at Steve’s lower lip, at his jaw, at the long lovely line of his neck, smiling to himself.

“Gonna take you apart, sweetheart, right here in the hall,” he promised. His reward was another dig of those strong fingers, the climbing flush on pretty cheekbones. “Get your pants down and make you feel so good, just right, just perfect for me. Take you upstairs after, spread you all out on our bed and fuck you through the mattress.” His mouth was dry, his hands unsteady with the promise of it. Touching them always made him unsteady, unbalanced in the face of the unthinking way they gave him permission to caress the very bodies he had so nearly torn apart.

“You been thinking of that all night?” Steve pulled at his jacket, at the thin sweater Bucky was wearing, and set to wrestling both off him when Bucky stepped back far enough. “Pretty sure you were. God knows I was. Still can’t believe I’ve got you back.” He laughed into the curve of Bucky’s neck, big hands splayed across his back, holding him close. Steve had always had big hands. “Still can’t believe you’re mine to touch whenever I want.”

“Whenever you want,” Bucky echoed, wondering. _Steve_ couldn’t believe it… hell. His head dropped back so fast he got whiplash when Steve’s hands pulled his belt buckle open, began to push under the waistband of his jeans. “Come on. Come on…” He staggered backwards, dragging Steve with him, half-coherent words interspersed with helpless moaning; he had been aiming distantly for a clear stretch of wall, but then his foot came down on something on the floor that shouldn’t have been there, and he tripped, flailing.

Steve’s hands being inside his pants at the time, guess who fell on top of him.

Bucky started laughing. “Oh man. Super-skilled ninja assassin, me.”

“Oh my god,” Steve said, face mashed into Bucky’s bare chest. He’d managed to get his hands out of Bucky’s pants on the way down and was holding on to his hips now, shaking. “Oh that was amazing. And all your fault.”

“ _Excuse_ you.”

“Hey, I tidy my crap up, thank you –“

“The hell you do,” said Bucky, and laughed even harder. The polished floor was cold under his back; Steve was warm and heavy above him, the zip of his jacket digging into Bucky’s chest, the leather scraping deliciously at his nipples. He planted his feet and opened his legs so that Steve fell into his thighs, sighing; they kissed for long minutes, drawing it out, Steve’s fingers laced with Bucky’s somewhere near his shoulders, palm to palm, bodies moving together lazy as sin, too lazy to even find a rhythm; just touch, just spiralling desire.

Finally Steve knelt up, hot-eyed, and pulled his jacket off his shoulders, his shirt over his head. Nothing underneath but dog tags, dark against his fair flushed skin. Bucky raised his hands above his head and stretched, long and luxuriously, letting his head tip back and his body arch invitingly.

Steve said, “You’re beautiful.”

Bucky sighed, a little, eyes half-closed, watching him through his lashes. Hearing that warmed him all over; knowing that Steve and Natasha still thought him beautiful made him feel whole. “Thank you.”

Steve smiled. “And still really vain.”

“Hey – ah, oh, yeah, c’mon –“ Clever fingers pulled his jeans open, wrapped around his cock; the fact that Steve’s hands were cold just made it better. Bucky twisted up and moaned and closed his eyes, gasping, gave himself up to the dry, steady stroke of Steve’s hands, the growing tightness of his body, plunging hotly towards orgasm.

Then, because Steve was sort of an asshole, he stopped. Bucky growled at him, light years past using his words, but Steve was yanking his own pants open and pushing them down; then he fell forwards over Bucky’s body, their bare chests pressing deliciously together, and Bucky wrapped an arm around his back and rolled them both to their sides, where – kissing madly – they wrestled their pants down past their knees, and Bucky got his thigh between Steve’s, his cock sliding in the warm crease of Steve’s hip, and grabbed his right hand; the smell of the cigarette was rich on his first two fingers, and Bucky licked across his palm and wrapped it round their cocks, following suit with his own.

They fought for a rhythm, laughing into each other’s mouths, pushing at each other’s hands, fingers lacing together; finally they settled for slow and lazy, building it up again, the tension and the heat, the hard floor underneath them and Steve’s dog tags pressing against Bucky’s chest and the sex-flush heat of each other’s skin, shamelessly half-naked on the floor – in the front hall, for god’s sake; Mam was turning in her grave.

But it was their house, their home; the only person who might find them here was their girlfriend, and only Natalya cared what they did together, only she knew, only she would ever be privy to this, only she belonged in this house with them, this safe place they had made for one another. Bucky was shaking apart, stroke by stroke, kiss by kiss, and taking Steve with him, and there was nowhere else on earth he would ever want to be again, nowhere.

“Hey,” Steve said, eyes glassy with lust, and caught Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth – then he gave it up as a bad idea while they were both so close.

“What _now_?” Bucky squeezed him a little tighter, and Steve groaned like he’d been given a vision of paradise; just a little more…

“I love you.”

The thing about Steve was: he might be privately smug about it, Bucky wouldn’t know, but he would never, ever tell a living soul – not even Tasha – that it was those three words that made Bucky come. Breathing hard, eyes tight shut, he fell onto his back again – Steve’s hips were jerking with his own aftershocks – flung an arm across his eyes, smiling like a fool.

“I love you too.”

Steve put his head on his shoulder, laughing softly. They hadn’t even managed to take their boots off. Punch-drunk, they must have both dozed for a couple of minutes; then, when a car went past in the street, Bucky roused himself again. He needed a shower and he needed to sleep, to wrap himself round Steve and drift off to hazy dreams of what they’d do with Nat when she got home… He kicked his boots off, grateful he hadn’t worn any with laces – Steve’s fingers looked a little unsteady on his – and yanked his pants and underwear off, shaking his head at how ridiculous they must look.

“Hey, what _did_ you trip over?”

“Hmm?” Bucky looked around. Steve leant past him – they did usually keep the front hall pretty tidy – oh. Oh, it was one of Natasha’s boots, her favourite pair with the heels and the buckles.

For a moment the obvious conclusion refused to register. Then he started to smile. “She’s home.”

 

 

 


End file.
